Always Never Yours(12)

“That’s . . . exactly what it is,” Owen says thoughtfully and with amusement. “But yeah, Will and I, we’re friend-ly. I write him lyrics, and he gives me songwriting credit on their nonexistent recordings.”

I grin. “He seems . . . different,” I venture. “What’s his deal?”

“Different?” I hear a nearly imperceptible edge in Owen’s voice. As much I love the changes in Will, Owen evidently doesn’t. “Billy went to a songwriting camp this summer. It was Will who returned. He kind of redefined himself.”

I pause, hitching my bag up on my shoulder. “He got really hot.”

Owen laughs shortly. “Well, don’t tell him. He’s been insufferable since he got back.”

“I very much intend to tell him!” I glance over my shoulder to find Owen eyeing me skeptically.

“You’re going to go for this guy after one conversation swapping Shakespeare jokes and staring into each other’s eyes?”

“Duh. I just said he was hot.”

I turn back to the path and hear Owen laugh behind me. “I guess if it’s love, one conversation’s all you need. You’ll make a fine Juliet yet.”

“Love?” I snort, kicking a rock off the path. “When did I say love? I just think it’d be fun. I’m not really the love-at-first-sight, long-walks-on-the-beach, balcony-scene type.” Not that I wouldn’t be that type, if I believed those things weren’t just a beautiful fiction. I want them just like everybody else. I’m just not holding my breath.

“What do you mean?” Owen sounds genuinely interested.

I don’t usually talk about my unique pattern of breakups, but there’s something about Owen that has me feeling like he’d understand. “Remember what I told you about Tyler? He dumped me for my best friend, Madeleine, and now they’re, like, the perfect couple. The thing is, that’s not the first time a guy’s left me for the real deal. It’s a perfect trend—everyone I date, it’s right before they find exactly what they’re looking for.”

Owen is silent for a moment. I don’t look back, worrying he’s deciding I’m paranoid and self-pitying. But he only sounds sympathetic when he says, “Getting dumped sucks.”

“I’m not dumped,” I reply quickly, defensiveness creeping into my voice. “Guys don’t leave me because of me. It’s not like I scare them off,” I add, needing to make this clear. “I’m just . . . the girl before.”

“You’re Rosaline,” Owen says, and I stop. He’s standing in the middle of the path, hands in his pockets, looking out into the woods like he’s lost in thought.

“The girl Romeo leaves for Juliet? That’s not the most flattering comparison,” I mutter. But in my head I know it fits.

He looks at me then, no longer contemplating—he’s seeing me, giving me his full attention. I realize it’s something I’ve never had from him in the past couple of days since we started talking. Whenever I’ve encountered Owen, he’s been half-focused on his notebook or lost in thought.

He shakes his head. “I think Rosaline’s really interesting. She’s an underexplored part of the play. In a lot of ways, her story’s probably more interesting than Juliet’s. Or at least I think so.”

The earnestness in his voice and the way he’s looking at me have me turning back to the trail. I can’t help feeling like he’s seeing me for something I’m not. “First you say I’ll make a fine Juliet, now I’m Rosaline”—I laugh, trying to bring the conversation back to casual—“I better be careful. If I keep talking, I’ll turn into Tybalt.”

I wait for Owen’s reply. When I don’t hear his footsteps behind me, I turn back around. He’s climbed onto a rock and is holding his phone up toward the treetops in the universal human display of looking for cell service.

“Why do you need reception?” I ask. “We’re five minutes from the restaurant.”

“Cosima wants to FaceTime me,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Cosima?” I stifle a laugh at Owen’s woodland acrobatics.

“My girlfriend.”

Owen has a girlfriend? Interesting. “What kind of name is that?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“It’s Italian,” he says, clambering down from his rock to find a new spot. “Like, she lives in Italy. We’re in such different time zones, we have to video chat every chance we get.”

An Italian girlfriend? Owen is full of surprises. I do a little mental math. “Isn’t it like the middle of the night there?”

“Yeah, it’s late.” He’s now standing between two giant pines. His expression even, he waves his phone with deliberate, unhurried movements. For someone who stopped suddenly to climb onto a boulder, he seems decidedly untroubled by his lack of success. “I’m trying to catch her before she goes to bed, but there’s no service.”

“We are in the middle of the forest,” I point out unhelpfully. When Owen says nothing, I go on. “Well, I want pizza. Say ciao to Cosima, your Italian girlfriend who lives in Italy.” Before I continue down the path, I catch the hint of a smile on Owen’s lips.



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